


the desire for certain pleasures (is a part of my pain)

by amerande



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Gentle Hair Pulling :v, Hair, Hair Kink, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Through History, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Tenderness, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley's an enby using he/him pronouns god bless, listen up guys fraught touches are no replacement for open and honest communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amerande/pseuds/amerande
Summary: The one where Aziraphale can't stop touching Crowley's hair (to Crowley's great delight).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 103
Kudos: 553
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Top Aziraphale Recs





	the desire for certain pleasures (is a part of my pain)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sara_wolfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/gifts).



> I got to pinch-hit for [AO3 user sara_wolfe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe) in the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019! The prompt was "Aziraphale loves playing with Crowley's hair. Crowley loves having his hair played with. They can't actually talk about this like functional ethereal beings, and they think this level of contact is all they're allowed to have/want, so they keep inventing excuses to be able to touch/be touched by the other."
> 
> Enjoy!

The first time was in Iona. Crawly wore his hair long in that time, wild curls tumbling to the middle of his back. On this particular day, he’d woven a single braided black cord through it, which did little to contain or shape it, but provided a lovely contrast to the fiery color.

They’d spent all of the morning and most of the afternoon listening to a man by the name of Thales. Crawly had told Aziraphale of him, had insisted he come witness some of the humans’ first faltering steps towards a scientific understanding of their world.

It had been a joy to listen and to watch—but better than any of Thales’s explanations and reasonings, to Aziraphale, had been the sight of Crawly enraptured. To listen as Crawly questioned and provoked, to watch the intensity and delight on his face as he listened.

And then, after, they were walking along the bay. Aziraphale had brought along wine, and they found themselves a tree to sit against as they passed the bottle between them and watched the sunlight dance on the water.

“He’s dead wrong, of course,” Crawly said at one point.

“Oh, in nearly every respect,” Aziraphale agreed.

“At least about the water, yeah. I _think_ he’s right about the pyramids. Makes sense. Maths are practical.”

“More objective, yes.”

“You’re not going to—to smite him, or anything, are you?”

“My dear boy!” Aziraphale said, affronted. “Why on Earth should I do that?”

Crawly shrugged and hunched forward. “Moving away from _faith_ , looking for scientific explanations. Seems like the sort of thing your lot would disapprove of.”

“Hmm, I take your meaning. But no—at least, _I_ don’t disapprove. And I haven’t received any instructions related to it.” Aziraphale took a sip from the bottle and sat up, watching the wind tug at the ends of Crawly’s curls. “I don’t think science and faith have to be mutually exclusive, you know.”

Crawly just grunted in response.

Aziraphale didn’t know what possessed him then. Maybe it was the way the late sun caught the halo of Crawly’s hair, turning it into a red-gold fire. Maybe it was the wind that wrapped him in the salt-and-spice scent of the sea and Crawly together. Maybe it was just Aziraphale’s own nature—to see a lovely thing and want to know it. Whatever it was, he reached out.

“Oh,” he said, “Your cord’s come loose.” With gentle hands, he unwrapped the rest of the black braid, then parted Crawly’s hair and re-wove the whole thing together.

It was the work of only a moment, a scant handful of breaths. Crawly didn’t move, didn’t respond or react in any way.

It was just as well, really. From the instant Aziraphale first felt the silk of his hair, he became completely aware of just how close Crawly was, of how the heat of the day had sunk into his hair, of how dangerous it was to be so near him—near enough to scorch and smolder. Aziraphale had the strange, sudden conviction that if Crawly had welcomed his touch in any way, he may never have been able to stop. Even as he finished off the loose plait, he fought against the desire to run his hands through Crawly’s hair again, to feel every strand, to hold him closer...

But he pulled his hands away and sat back a little. He didn’t breathe until Crawly turned and looked at him, brow furrowed and eyes intent.

“Thanks,” the demon said.

“Don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale, and he held out the wine for Crawly to drink.

* * *

They were together five hundred years later when Rome was tearing itself apart. Both were in the city on official business, although Crawly’s was by far the easier—in fact, in the midst of the civil war he had to do nothing at all for fear and death to spread like a sickness, like fire.

Like the fire that caught on the Capitoline Hill one night.

Crawly barely kept pace behind Aziraphale as he raced towards the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, so frantic that the angel’s wings were almost fully real, as if they might lend him speed.

“Aziraphale!” Crawly screamed, but Aziraphale didn’t turn; his words had been eaten by the roar.

“Aziraphale, _stop_ ,” he tried again, desperately, and he tried to outpace the angel, fighting against the wind and ash and the awful heat from the inferno that waited at the top of the hill.

He finally caught up, overtook him, grabbed one arm—

and Aziraphale ripped free and continued. Didn’t even spare a glance for Crawly, his eyes remaining fixed on the temple entrance.

Crawly scrambled again and put himself in front of the angel and readied all his power.

“Stop!”

Aziraphale crashed into him, his ash-burnt face wild and fierce. He struggled in a frenzy to move past the demon, but Crawly met his brute strength with cunning and refused to be dislodged.

“You’ll discorporate,” he bellowed, and he braced both hands against Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Aziraphale raised his own hands to grapple at Crawly, and for a second, Crawly was clutched by an ice-cold fear. Aziraphale grabbed the back of his head as if he was going to—to crush it, just like that, or break his neck—Crawly didn’t know but he believed with every scrap of his being that it was going to happen.

But his fingers tangled in the embers of Crawly’s hair, and he blinked.

“Crawly,” he said, like a man coming awake, his voice hoarse and distant. “It’ll all be lost—“

“It _is_ lost,” Crawly retorted. He didn’t know what _it all_ was, but he knew that fire: nothing was going to come out of the temple. “Getting yourself killed over it won’t fix anything.”

Aziraphale hadn’t moved since he had touched Crawly—their hands were still up, holding each other—but he turned now, looked at the temple, and seemed to understand. A weight pulled at his face, and he shook a little. He shrunk in on himself and did not argue.

“Come on,” Crawly said. He tried to sound soothing despite the fact that he had to shout to be heard, despite the blistering heat at his back. He turned Aziraphale around and pushed him gently.

Aziraphale let himself be led away and out of the city, until at last they were far enough removed that Crawly felt it was safe to stop. Aziraphale sunk to the ground, his face still hollow and disbelieving, and Crawly sat beside him.

In a broken voice, Aziraphale spoke of the treasure of the temple: the Sibylline Books, books of true prophecy. Of how much might be lost, losing them. Of his weariness of standing watch as the humans tore themselves apart, burned and buried and wrecked each other and their most beautiful creations.

Tears washed pale tracks through the soot on his face as he spoke, and by the end he was clinging to Crawly, arms wrapped around his shoulders and neck, warm and solid, as the shaking of his tears flowed and subsided.

Crawly bore Aziraphale’s grief and did not let his own heart break with it. He sat and withstood it as Aziraphale quieted, until the only motion between the two of them was the soft movement of Aziraphale’s hands through Crawly’s hair.

He was not—could not be—enjoying this, Crawly told himself firmly. Aziraphale was hurt and seeking comfort, and was an angel besides, so any secret thrill of pleasure the demon might feel at the weight of Aziraphale’s hand in his hair could not exist. It was unthinkable.

Eventually the sound of Aziraphale’s breath evened out to the steady rhythm of sleep. Little by little, the angel’s arms slipped from where they had clung to Crawly. He felt cold in their absence.

He left Aziraphale there, sleeping on a hill as dawn broke over the smoking ruins on distant hills.

* * *

The next time they met in Rome, Crowley was going by his new name. They’d shared oysters and stories and Aziraphale struggled all night not to run his fingers through the tight curls that adorned Crowley’s head.

* * *

“Hold still,” Aziraphale said suddenly, as they walked along the bank of the Tigris.

Crowley held still—even stiller when Aziraphale reached a hand up to his head.

A shock of heat rocketed through Crowley; he felt flushed all over before the angel even touched him—

the touch never came. Aziraphale plucked something out of Crowley’s hair, then held it for him to see. Crowley blinked once and looked.

It was a feather that must have been caught in his hair. Aziraphale tilted his hand, and the little thing fluttered away.

Then, before Crowley could possibly brace himself, Aziraphale reached up again and tucked a loose lock of Crowley’s hair back from his face and behind his ear.

Their eyes caught for an instant, and Crowley fought against a shiver.

Crowley wondered if he should say something—but what to say? What could he _possibly_ say, except to beg Aziraphale to continue, and be rejected?

The angel’s hand dropped. The moment broke.

They walked on.

* * *

When Aziraphale had been handed his lance, a black scarf had been tied along the grip, just behind the vamplate. He’d looked around quickly but caught no sight of Crowley, so he had determinedly put it out of his mind—or he had tried to, but the idea that Crowley was watching the joust stayed with him as he charged again and again, as he unseated his opponents, as he drew his sword.

And then it was over, and he untied the scarf from the base of his shattered lance and dragged himself back to his tent.

He allowed his squire to untie the fastening of his breastplate then sent the boy away. A miracle did for the rest, and he sat heavily and poured himself wine.

“You’re a nuisance, you know,” said a sharp voice.

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley stood just inside the tent, flap closed behind him. His clothing was clean and in good repair, although the style was not rich, and his red curls tumbled around his shoulders, unbound.

“Am I?”

“I worked very hard to get that lot nice and uppity,” the demon said.

Aziraphale sighed and took a long drink. When he’d drained his goblet, he set it aside and looked at Crowley again.

“Well I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, “but they really do need to be united right now.”

“You could have warned me that you’d be so...stubborn about it. Saved me the trouble.”

Aziraphale gave a noncommittal hum. He considered challenging the demon, asking why he’d given Aziraphale a token if it was all such an annoyance. But he knew better—Crowley drew very careful lines around their interactions. If the angel brought it up directly, Crowley would shy away, shut him down. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, of course: it was a dangerous game they were playing, especially for Crowley. So the demon played by rules Aziraphale himself could barely comprehend, compartmentalized and sectioned off their professional interactions and their personal ones. He did it deftly, like a dance.

Aziraphale was no dancer, but he supposed he could pretend.

With a groan for all his aching muscles, Aziraphale heaved himself back to his feet. “Please allow me to apologize,” he said, and he plucked a yellow rose from the air.

He could feel Crowley’s gaze on him as he drew close, gently threaded the rose stem into the mass of curls, and arranged the whole thing, breathing out the faintest hint of a miracle to keep it in place and fresh.

When he was done, he used both hands to gently brush Crowley’s hair back so it all fell behind his shoulders. His hands felt too warm where they grazed the demon’s skin.

They stood still.

“I should be off,” Crowley blurted out after an agonizing silence. “Lots of...discord to foment.”

Then he was gone.

* * *

“Everyone knows this is the margravine’s necklace,” Crowley explained. “Just a couple glances of it at the right time as I make my way in, and it’ll be as good as _fact_.”

“If you’re sure,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt a tingle shoot down his spine as the angel lifted the heavy hair of his braid and settled the delicate chain around his neck. Aziraphale’s touch was feather-light and perfect. He thought he could feel the angel’s breath.

“I’m sure,” Crowley said, fists clenched tight.

* * *

And so it went. Through the years, it almost came to seem as if their meetings couldn’t end until Aziraphale had found a reason for some sort of touch. It was never commented upon, not since that very first time, but Aziraphale was emboldened by the way Crowley looked at him. The way Crowley’s face would grow hungrier, softer, the way he’d watch every movement of Aziraphale’s hands until he finally _touched_. When it happened, Crowley would go utterly still, and when he moved again all the tension would be gone from his frame.

A thousand, thousand touches over the centuries. A thousand perfect, quiet moments. An endless, insatiable pit in Aziraphale’s heart, an unending _want_ that felt impossible to put off.

* * *

Weariness pulled at Crowley’s body and mind like a weighted net, trapping him, slowing him, making him fumble. He slumped into the seat on the bus bound to London, too tired to even be happy that Aziraphale chose to sit directly next to him, rather than behind or in front as he normally would have.

 _Normally_. Nothing that was _normal_ before ever would be again. He was still a demon, and Aziraphale was still an angel, but everything else—gone. Upheaved. Done away with.

As he leaned his head against the window, he thought sluggishly of the implications of that.

Well: no more paperwork or reports, for one. For another, they could be _very_ sure that there’d be Hell (or in the angel’s case, Heaven) to pay for what they’d done. A third effect, and the most alarming: no need anymore for the Arrangement.

Crowley’s exhausted mind boggled. In many ways, the Arrangement had been carefully positioned as an agreement of non-interference, with the occasional temptation and blessing thrown in as Aziraphale got more comfortable with the idea. Fundamentally, though, it was a tacit agreement that there _would_ be interference—that he and Aziraphale would meet, would be around each other’s lives and work, would find a way to muddle through the oddities of ineffable bureaucracy and come out on top.

In Crowley’s eyes, it had served as both an excuse and protection. Not protection from either side—holy water notwithstanding—but from his own impulses. A contract of sorts, a set of rules he could abide by to keep himself in check. Boundaries that he and the angel carved out together.

As the last week had proved, when they operated outside of those bounds there was potential for disaster. Crowley grimaced as he remembered standing on the pavement in Soho, begging Aziraphale to flee with him; the look in Aziraphale’s eyes as he said _no_ , _no_ in a dozen different words.

His thoughts were interrupted by gentle pressure—Aziraphale’s forearm resting across Crowley’s shoulders, thumb idly playing with the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck.

It was pleasanter by far to sit and think of nothing but the trail of silk-soft delight that Aziraphale’s thumb traced through his hair and over his skin. Crowley allowed his eyes to close and his worries to drift off into nothingness.

* * *

When Aziraphale came back out to Crowley’s living room, he found the demon halfway asleep.

“Up you get,” he said, and he helped him to his feet and began half-guiding, half-hauling him down the hallway.

“Bedroom’s the other door,” Crowley said.

“I know, but that’s not where you’re headed,” Aziraphale said, and led him into the bathroom. “You’re head to toe in soot and you smell like burning rubber. Can’t rest like that.”

The standing tub was filled with steaming hot water and bubbles that smelled of cedarwood and juniper. Crowley stared at it like he was trying to figure out what it was for. Aziraphale gave him a little push in its direction and made as if to leave.

“No!” Crowley said abruptly. He’d turned back from the bath and was watching Aziraphale. “Don’t leave.”

Aziraphale’s heart gave a mighty lurch at the note of pleading in his voice. “My dear…” He trailed off, one hand vaguely indicating the bath.

“I know—I’ll—thank you, I know I’m a mess, but could you _please_ —” Crowley cut himself off with a sigh. Still watching Aziraphale, he got into the bath, clothes and all. A moment later, a miracle shimmered in the air and his clothes appeared, dry and neatly folded, on the countertop, while all of Crowley but his head was submerged beneath the water and foam.

Aziraphale nodded slowly, understanding. “All right, yes, I can stay.” He drew a chair which had not existed a moment before up beside the head of the tub and sat.

They didn’t speak; the only sound was the fizz of the bubbles and the little swishes and splashes of water as the demon moved a little, washed his hands, scrubbed at his face.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley slowly relaxed against the side of the tub, evidently done washing and content to sit and soak.

So Aziraphale sat, too. Sat and waited and did not make Crowley be alone after the day he had had. Sat and thought of what they might need to prepare for—and what they might look forward to, on the other side of that.

He had long avoided dwelling on the future—he’d never been able to conjure up what a truly good one might look like. But now, things had worked out precisely as he could have never predicted, and his reflection led him to thoughts of what their world might be like now. Of what use they might make of the liberty to do as they wished, to set aside pretense. To reach out and _touch_ if they wished to touch, to take and give if they wished to do that.

The demon’s hair was still dry, untouched, and Aziraphale was suddenly drunk on the incredible thought of a _future_.

He leaned forward and slowly extended his hands until they rested along the base of Crowley’s neck. One stayed there; the other dipped down and cupped a handful of water. He poured this over Crowley’s hair and repeated the gesture. Then he started combing his fingers through the demon’s hair.

Crowley let out a groan. “Don’t do that, angel, you know how it tempts me.”

It took all of Aziraphale’s considerable willpower to keep his hands from shaking at the demon’s admission. He grew still, although he left his hands where they had been.

He marveled silently at the statement, turned it over in his mind, considered what it might mean—what he might like it to mean.

“Well then,” he said, leaning forward and beginning once more to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair and scrub softly at his scalp, “let me tempt you.”

* * *

He could _feel_ Aziraphale’s shadow—the coolness that followed the touch of his fingertips like an echo, where the baking sunlight pouring in the window no longer fell on his own skin. The angel’s hands roamed over Crowley’s bare back in little circles and nonsense patterns.

Crowley breathed in deeply as Aziraphale ran one manicured fingernail from the base of his spine up, up to his neck, light as a whisper. His skin prickled and his muscles tensed and relaxed at the touch.

By now it was almost familiar, no longer a shock, but it would _never_ feel commonplace. Being touched by Aziraphale—so openly, so intimately—would always be special; he knew it deep in his bones, in his core.

For a moment Aziraphale’s hand (and its shadow) were gone, and then Crowley felt three fingers touch his forehead. They trailed up and back, up by his temple, and then into his hair, sending shivers down his spine. At one moment, he could only feel the very edge of Aziraphale’s fingernails—the next, the angel was running heavy fingers through Crowley’s hair and along his scalp. Crowley let out a shuddering breath.

How had he existed so long without being able to indulge in this?

Aziraphale dragged his hand down the back of Crowley’s neck over to one shoulder blade, circling around the spot that always made Crowley’s breath hitch—and how had he been in this corporation for thousands of years and not found out about that until Aziraphale showed it to him?

After an eternity of soft touches, of the gentle scrape of fingernails with just enough pressure to make Crowley groan, Aziraphale coaxed Crowley to roll onto his side. Then the angel was spooning up behind him.

How had they ever been able to stop? It seemed unfathomable now. As if from a great distance, Crowley remembered an endless litany of excuses, of reasons to pull back. A thousand silences when he couldn’t bear to speak.

But those times were gone. Now, he had Aziraphale almost as close as could be. Aziraphale, behind him, soft torso and hard cock pressed up close to him.

Perfection.

“You smell so lovely,” the angel said. He was nuzzling the back of Crowley’s head, his breath hot in the demon’s hair.

One of Aziraphale’s hands had slid down Crowley’s side to his waist, to his hips. He led Crowley to lift his upper leg, to bend his knee to prop it up. Then one soft, slick finger was circling Crowley’s entrance, and Crowley let out a soft breath.

“ _Please,_ ” he said.

He could do that now: say _please_. He didn’t have to—Aziraphale would give and give, would pursue either of their slightest inclinations with endless enthusiasm—but he _could._ Could ask, could say _I want_ , _would you please_.

The angel gave a hum of pleasure and continued, one hand holding the base of Crowley’s neck where it met his shoulder, the other preparing him with the most exquisite rhythm, fingers curving and pushing and receding until Crowley was rock hard and prepared to beg.

Then Aziraphale slid inside him, gentle and complete and so perfect. With one hand at Crowley’s shoulder and the other at his waist, Aziraphale steadied the demon and began to rock his hips.

Aziraphale spoke between slow, heavy kisses at the nape of Crowley’s neck: “Will you touch yourself?” he asked.

Just the question sent a jolt all the way through Crowley, but no—that was not what he wanted. “Not now,” he said.

Aziraphale had taught him how to ask, how to receive, how to guide the angel to what he wanted. He could say _touch me, love me, fuck me—ravish me_ , could say _not like that, not now_. Aziraphale had taught him to trust that it was okay to _want_ , and to want _this_ rather than _that_. He would not be cast out for asking.

“Shall I help you, dearest?”

“Later,” Crowley panted. “After— _after.”_

He both heard and felt Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath at that.

Their pace picked up. Aziraphale’s face was buried in the crook of Crowley’s neck as the demon braced himself and arched back to meet each thrust. The angel pushed in, and in, and in, his hand tight as a vise on Crowley’s hip, his breathing ragged.

Then he heard Aziraphale’s soft, lovely gasp as the angel came. That sound—it was for him, _because_ of him. The mere thought was almost enough to send Crowley over the edge himself.

The moment stretched on and on, caught in the rush of the angel’s pleasure. Finally, Aziraphale’s hips moved and he pulled out of Crowley, still breathing heavily as he laid the demon on his back and curled around him, possessive as a dragon with its gold.

“Now my love,” he purred, “what’s your pleasure?”

That tone of voice, thick as honey and sweet as sin, always stole the breath right from Crowley’s throat. His cock twitched; his whole body pulsed with need and want.

“Can you—“ how was he supposed to speak when the angel touched him like that, squeezing and petting and soothing every curve and angle? “—My hair,” he managed to say.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but he pressed close enough to Crowley that the demon could feel the rumble of something like a hum or a growl deep in his throat—and suddenly the angel was tangling one hand into Crowley’s hair and at the same time stroking Crowley’s cock. His tongue ran along the shell of Crowley’s ear, and the demon writhed as everywhere Aziraphale touched rang with pleasure.

When Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hair—not enough to hurt, but to send a shock of sensation straight to his core, and to pull his head back so the angel could lick and nibble at his exposed neck—that was it. Crowley came, joy pulsing through his body, legs taut and hands searching for any part of his angel to cling to.

How was it, he thought as his breathing slowed and Aziraphale cooed soft encouragement and praise in his ear, that each time could feel at once the same and so perfectly different? Their each and every intimacy felt like a revelation. He turned his head and kissed Aziraphale, tasted desire and contentment on his tongue.

The sunlight on their skin and the satisfaction thrumming through his body enveloped Crowley, and he felt himself drifting off towards sleep. As he settled into it, he felt Aziraphale press one sweet kiss in his hair, and all was well.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [curlycrowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlycrowley/pseuds/curlycrowley) for betaing this fic!
> 
> I made an accompanying art piece for this, [which you can find here on tumblr](https://thelasthomelyurl.tumblr.com/post/190482249225/the-desire-for-certain-pleasures-is-a-part-of-my).
> 
> The title is stolen from Khalil Gibran.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts down in the comments. :)
> 
> I've got a double-handful of other GO fics that you can find under this pseud (from G to E!), and you can find me on tumblr as [thelasthomelyurl](https://thelasthomelyurl.tumblr.com/).


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